Discovering the happiness in each day, appreciating each moment for what it is, seeing the world through a child’s eyes… those are always the clichés with which I begin the day, hoping, knowing that the mind overpowers the body. Knowing that perspective matters, that optimism counts, that every moment of laughter and joy can color the day in a way of which sadness knows nothing. Each day begins with the optimism, the “self-brain-washing,” that tells me this day can be good. This day has potential. I have potential. I think these thoughts, knowing their power and believing in them… wanting to believe in them.

But often I think these hopeful thoughts in response to the heavy feeling that has just awoken my body from its rest. They are reactionary. The heaviness, the weight pressing onto my chest, comes first, optimism second, struggling barely to catch up with the negative emotions that already are championing the morning.

The heaviness somewhere has its origin, whether in a dream or carried over from the former night’s tears, now disappeared into the threads of a pillow. The heaviness’s origin is veiled, uncertain.

And uncertainty, despite the hopeful protests against it, reigns supreme in my mind, commanding all else to surrender. From somewhere within, it rallies its gloomy warriors to come from all corners of my body and center themselves, heavily, on the middle of my chest, where they can there threaten the high castle of my peaceful mind. Their jabs are more powerful than optimism’s walls are strong. Somehow, despite every happy moment which, brick by brick, creates an optimistic resistance, the depressed notions reach my mind’s inner sanctuary, distressing the heart before it even has a chance to feel the sun’s morning rays.

Each breath is a miracle. Each bird’s song, a symphony. Each gust of wind, the whisper of an angel, passing from one corner of the earth to the next. Every moment is precious. Every minute, a new baby born. Every day, an anniversary.

But today, in my room, in the small piece of the universe where I can reveal my true being, the morning’s tears taint my mind’s vision, staining its sight long after the salty streams have run their course down cheeks and chin. The tears stain the day with a gloom that persists, beneath moments of happiness, waiting purely for the opportunity to present painful remembrances of life’s hardships.

Uncertainty bids sadness to wait for a moment’s weakness in the castle’s walls, remaining vigilant for when a guard may leave his post. Then it commands the tears to flow inward, like waves rushing to fill a child’s carefully dug sand moat before going back to the sea… and when they retreat, they do so only to come back with more of the ocean’s force, knowing the moat has diminished and the castle stands vulnerable.

I wish for a sanctuary from this war.

So I will make one. I will keep building up my castle’s walls through the acknowledgment of each happy moment, through the acceptance of each ray of hope, and through the help of those kind architects who come to help me build.

I will begin each morning by saying thank you and bid each day farewell with a kiss. I will love having lived each day, knowing that even if my end was a bit rocky, someone, somewhere had a birthday, someone took his first step, someone wished upon a shooting star, someone held a new child in her arms, someone welcomed her first pet, someone finished his favorite book, someone sang a new song, and someone, somewhere greeted the day with a kiss and bid it adieu with the words: thank you.

I wrote this post awhile back in reflection of how sadness can claim one moment, and optimism the next. How those two feelings coexist with one another in our minds and, on those emotional mornings or nights, exhaustively compete for our attention, so that we might attribute a day ahead or a day already passed to sadness or joy. The feelings aim to tint our perspective – the result? Depression or gratitude.

This post is dedicated to viewing every yesterday with gratitude so that we can greet each tomorrow with joy.

It had only been one moment, and just this one time. A “crime of opportunity,” they call it, and I suppose that’s exactly what it was. I’m not a thief. I never meant to take it. I’m not that person. I have watched over laptops, phones, purses, car keys that have been left on coffee shop tables for full hours, oftentimes when I have not been asked. Supervising these personal objects of complete strangers, just to make sure they were safe from greedy fingers. Surely no one would dare when I was on the defensive, not while I was the private detective working on behalf of Good Citizens Anonymous. I believe in a sort of mutual morality… responsibility, even, between men. If someone drops a dollar, you pick it up and give it back. If someone leaves their headlights on after parking their car, you tell them. And if someone temporarily leaves a possession behind at a neighboring table as they order a drink or use the restroom at a coffee shop, you watch it for them until they return.

I’m not a criminal. But the “opportunity” was there, and I blame that chance itself for what happened. I’m no thief.

But here I am, typing away, on a laptop that is not mine. One with pictures of someone else, with music belonging to someone else, with emails all intended for someone else. And with a research project aimed for someone else.

The topic: cancer. Five Internet tabs all point to the same kind. A roughly typed cheat sheet is open, with information compiled from various sources.

“General facts about ACC,” reads one section.

“General info about stages and diagnoses,” states another.

“To look up further,” leads still another.

Then there is a list of questions, perhaps for the student to ask his teacher? Or to ask an expert? Perhaps an interview-based report….

But then, there is another section, and this one throws me off. A list of clinical trials, all numbered out, each with numerous bullet points beneath it, randomly stating this or that: qualifications, procedures, doses, drugs, biological requirements. Perhaps the research project was about existing cancer treatments and methods more in their experimental phase? But stranger still, next to each title exists a set of parentheses that somehow only serve to further emphasize the words between them: DO NOT QUALIFY for some. QUESTIONABLE QUALIFICATION for a couple others. Each trial is being compared against something specific… Or rather, a specific subject. Or – I take a deep breath, staring at the stolen screen in front of me – at the project that, through a fateful plot twist in life, has now become mine… at the research intended not to inform but to save someone specific.

And here I am, alternating between typing on the laptop and reading through a research project that was never academic to begin with. It was personal.

I’m not a criminal. I didn’t ask for the opportunity to present itself. I’ve never taken anything before. But somehow… somehow it seems I’ve taken not someone’s item, not someone’s $800 piece of technology. But someone’s information – hope perhaps or – chance?

I continue to type because thought without some tangible evidence of the process is too muddled now, too confusing. I must continue to press fingers to keys on this stolen laptop. Within a digital document that, with a simple click of the button, I can maximize to cover up the research “project” behind it. But then a moment seeps into my fingers, making them realize every now and then, making – them – pause…. Depressing my WPM to something even my 1^st grade teacher would have been embarrassed by.

I wonder if the moment – the realization of what has been taken – is more painful to me, here, in the safety of my parked car, outside the shop, or more painful to the guy who surely has returned to his coffee table and discovered something missing.

The person who perhaps was just at that coffee shop needing a space in which to think. Someone wanting to escape from whatever reality in which he lived and went to the coffee shop for a few minutes. Not to be by himself and oriented to his own desires. But to be in a thinking environment apart from his school life, where he could focus all of his intentions on a research project that could save a life – a life he knew. Or lived? And now the research is here, in front of me. Or rather, just beyond this digital document, kept safe and most importantly: hidden now from my eyes.

His crime? Choosing my favorite coffee shop at which to escape.

My crime?

I cannot be a criminal. I have never stolen before. I am too moral to be a thief. If anything, it was a “crime” of fate. And yet, the unwarranted punishment, guilt, already seems to be imposing itself upon my thoughts.

Perhaps I will finish the research project. I will log onto his Facebook, which surely is just a click away, password stored in Google’s memory. I will become motivated by guilt and will finish the research project, as best I can, add to its contents, and then notify the laptop owner anonymously. I could do it – leave a message from his own Facebook account on his own Facebook wall. And leave the stolen device somewhere for him to find. I could do that.

But that would be an act of good will rooted in guilt, and guilt is punishment for a crime I did not commit, and I cannot accept punishment when I am not at fault. For someone else, that would be a good answer: research, notify the owner, leave the laptop. But for me, with no intention of stealing in my life, with a life built around and committed to morality, I cannot be at fault. I am no criminal. So I must not punish myself by finishing the project. I must not accept the guilt when fate claimed the laptop for me through presenting the opportunity. I did not commit the crime. I – am – no – criminal.

So I will minimize this digital document on which I am typing. Just for a moment. I will close out of the academic research project. I will pull up Facebook and log out of his account and into mine.

I just need – one moment – to ensure my reality stays intact. To define these past few moments with another.

One moment.

…

“Refurbished laptop for sale – IM for details!”

Done.

One like. Two. One comment. Two.